Art, Guns, and Aristocrats
by Fashonista411
Summary: A unseen artistic talent, art fairs and a young man whose life is in danger... can one art project make their dreams come true, save their life, and set everything right?


Heyy everybody this is my first story on fanfiction! PLEASE comment! This story actually happened because of school! Crazy, i know but we had to do a continuation of a short story that we read in class and this is my continuation. :) Enjoy.

**Art, Guns, and Aristocrats**

_Finally, a chance to go to the dump. _When I think back on that thought it sounds rather strange, but it always fascinates me to see what I can find in dumps. It also gives me a chance to get away, to find inspiration for my art. Yes, I'm an artist. At twenty-one you'd think that I'd be out partying or something, but that was never really my thing. People made fun of me for it, people still do, but I don't care.

There's a reason why I'm at the dump today. There's an art show coming up and I need to make something absolutely stunning. I'm thinking metallics and pastels. Maybe a wood border, too.

Piles of garbage surrounded me as I walked along the narrow dirt path into the dump. It smelled to high heaven and it was eerily quiet. The sky was beginning to cloud over and it was starting to get cooler. I pulled my black knit sweater tighter around as a stared as the piles of trash. I kicked a pizza box out from the middle of the path and I saw something shiny. It looked like a silver color, it was poking out of an old soup can so I picked it up for closer examination. It was a gun.

_This would be the perfect center piece for my project! _I thought excitedly. My brain instantly filled with incredible ideas about what I could do with it. I held the small weapon and wondered about it. The thing looked brand new. There was not a speck of rust, or any sign of wear or use. I'm not an expert on guns but I was pretty sure that it wasn't loaded.

I continued to search the dump, to try to find things that would go with the gun. I found a couple of nice cans, some bits of glass, old pieces of steel wool, sheet metal, and tinsel. That should make an interesting piece. As I looked around I wondered about the gun. How did it get there? Why was it there? Most importantly, did it have a story behind it? These are the questions that haunted me as I walked home to my apartment where my best friend Lilian was cooking dinner.

"Hey, Becky. How was the dump?" Lilian asked, adding lots of sarcasm.

"Pretty good. I found some stuff that I'll use in my new piece." I replied, completely ignoring the sarcasm.

"Cool, I see you found a gun. Do you know anything about it? It could be really dangerous. It could be really serious, Becky."

Two weeks later my project was done. A wood frame encased bits of glass, scrap metal, and old cans surrounding tinsel and steel wool which surrounded the gun in a very elegant, metallic manner. The art show was the next day. Later that evening I got a strange call that both excited and scared me. It was Thomas Marron, the director of the art show. He was basically "the man." He told me that there was an art collector that he knew that wanted to see my latest piece, possibly buy it. He didn't say the name of the mysterious collector, or really anything about him. The only thing that he said was that this guy needed to see my work.

People crowded the halls chatting and enjoying the art show. I, however, was as tense as a student right before finals that they didn't study for. I brought Lilian along for moral support, but she was bored and tired of encouraging me for the past hour and a half. Art hung from the walls, ceiling, and sat on tables. Artists accompanied their work in case of potential buyers. Most I recognized, but some I didn't. I sat stiffly, tense in my chair waiting for this mystifying character.

My new collection of art was becoming quite a success. The building was being refinished so that the art would have proper lighting to show its creative glory. I just needed one more piece. Something genius, by an unknown artist. I had talked to my good friend, Thomas Marron , who was the director of many art shows. He recommended a young lady by the name of Becky McHenry. He told me that she would be famous, he was sure of it. He gave me her description: short, dark hair with a height of about five-foot four. He told me that you could see the intelligence when you looked at her, and I knew he was correct. I, Lance Ferari, have had a lot of experience with art and those who create it, so that day I decided to attend Thomas' art show that was to be held the following day. He assured me that he would call Miss Becky tonight to inform her of my coming. I couldn't have been happier. Becky McHenry, it will be a pleasure to make your acquaintance.

I continued to sit, thinking about this mysterious buyer, when I observed a tall, important looking man studying my piece. He wore a dark green, almost black, suit with a black tie and dress shoes. His hair was brown with no special cut and he carried a briefcase.

"This is an interesting design you have here, Miss McHenry." The tall guy addressed me.

"Thank you, sir. It is my latest." I forced myself not to laugh at his exceedingly formal manner.

"So, I've been told by my friend Mr. Marron that you're an unknown artist. Would I be correct in assuming that?"

"Yes, I suppose that statement would be true. May I ask your name, sir?"

"Of course. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Lance Ferari, art collector. I need one more piece to make my latest collection complete and I must say that I really admire your work. Would you be willing to sell it?"

"I may if it is for a fair price." By "fair price" I meant a couple hundred dollars I was very surprised at Mr. Ferari's offer.

"Say... Five thousand?" Those three simple words had knocked the wind out of me. Five thousand dollars? He really thought that my art was that valuable? One part of me immediately said yes but the other, more silent part of me said that this was a sleazy business man and I had really connected with this piece. More than anything else. The work awed and intrigued me to a point where I almost believed the master piece wasn't mine.

"Sir, may I have your number and get back to you on that?" He gave me a weird look, the kind that asked why I would need to think about five thousand dollars.

"Yes, of course. Please get back to me as soon as you can." He gave me his number, and I sat for the rest of the art show, trying to decide what was the best thing to do.

I must admit that I was quite surprised when the Miss McHenry asked me if she could get back to me. I was even more surprised when she called me that night.

"Hello?" I asked into the telephone.

"Hello, Mr. Ferari this is Becky McHenry. I would like to discuss with you the terms I have for allowing you to show my piece in your newest collection." She sounded very serious, business like, and polite.

"Of course, Miss McHenry. Please state your terms."

"I would be very grateful to sell you my piece if you ensure me that it goes to no one but yourself until the day it rusts with age. I'm asking this simply because I don't want the weaponry piece to get into the wrong hands, sir. That is an actual gun and I would hate to see it stolen and cause death." I was honestly quite surprised with her terms. I was expecting something more like to do with money or publicity. I assured her that I would keep surveillance on it constantly to ensure that it stays where it belongs. She thanked me greatly and agreed to sell her masterpiece. Finally, I was the proud owner of another complete art collection. However, I had a strange feeling that my success wouldn't last long.

/ / /

I ran as fast as they could. They would never get me, never. I wouldn't let them. I would die before they had a chance to hurt me or my family. Honestly, I didn't want to kill anyone and I found out later that I wouldn't have to. To be on the safe side for now, I would need a gun. Just a small one, just to frighten them. The gang, I mean. Those who used to be my family. I never wanted to be a gang member. I just wanted to protect my family. So, I busted out. It nearly killed me, and every time they saw me my life was in danger.

That's why I was running. Running away for a few days to find what I needed. I found myself in Maine, my favorite state. I got myself a hotel room for the night and decided to see the town. I walked around the quiet streets, the stars were bright and cool. My wore leather jacket, t-shirt, and jeans was all I had for clothes, and the night was cool. Shivering slightly, I stepped into a building. There were nicely dressed people everywhere, with art hanging from the ceilings and walls. A big sign said in large, printed letters "Grand Opening of Lance Ferari's Latest Art Show" so, I decided to take a look around. I found it relaxing to browse the large collection of other peoples' strangely creative thinking when I saw exactly what I had been looking for. I didn't want to steal. In fact, that was the exact opposite of what I wanted to do, but I reacted on instinct. I thrust my arm through the glass casing and grabbed the small gun. I didn't know if it was fake or not, at the moment I didn't care. I tore the gun out of it's encasing of tinsel and steel wool and I ran. People screamed, men yelled, and chaos surrounded me. I kept running.

I was shocked and sad when I heard someone had stolen the gun from my art piece. I became mad when I had to learn about it in the newspaper and Mr. Ferari didn't have the decency to tell me himself. Especially when he promised me that nothing would happen to it.

I was beyond words. The news hit me like a car crash. Miss McHenry's centerpiece had been stolen. I became ashamed when the newspaper article came out the following day and I didn't have the chance to tell her myself. Reviewing the security cameras, I could tell that the thief came out of nowhere. Just a random, freak attack. I immediately called the police, but the thief had fled. There was the main hotel in town that had said that a stranger had checked in who was wearing worn clothes and had looked like he had been running for a while. This man matched the man in the security cameras, but no one knew him and so, it is very possible that they don't find him.

/ / /

When I returned home, my brother greeted me with a huge hug. My mother thought that I had been killed and was crying with tears of joy. I showed them my gun, and my oldest sister walked away. My mother's eyes became hard.

"You should not have gotten that thing, Mikey. You probably stole it, and that makes you a thief. Don't you remember anything about your father?" Yes. I did remember. My father got killed by a gang member because he got out, like me, and bought a used gun. The problem was that when he really needed it, it didn't work. My mother was right. I never should have gotten it. It probably didn't even work anyway.

The next week I was out of jail. I had turned myself in and returned the gun. I apologized personally to Mr. Ferari, and I think he was very impressed. The artist of the art that I had stolen from, Becky McHenry, had visited me in jail. She was very nice to me, and that was different form what I expected. I hope I see her again, but right now I need to get my life back on track. Tye up loose ends and start over.


End file.
